Watching Paint Dry
by Simone Robinson
Summary: "- I count the cracks in the table with every word you speak. My hand has started to tingle where it grips the receiver and I fight back the flood of words that want to spill from my mouth and swamp the kitchen floor. -" It's been years.


**W** a t c h i n g**.P** a i n t**.D** r y

* * *

Time goes by faster than I used to think. When I was young and naive and every little bump in the road felt like the end of the world. Years ago, before my first, sweet, summer romance, tasting of strawberries and something else, something naughty. After the fights and the running and all the tears I tried to hide. Those days when I listened to Avril Lavine and didn't know who Rihanna was because that was always Nudge's department. Before the time I hijacked the fondue with you at my side, at the wedding, running and giggling like a couple of kids, and me spilling the dark, staining, melted chocolate onto my bridesmaid gown. It was pale blue, I think, it's difficult to recall. I remember that it was silk though, Total would have nothing but the best on his big day. It was decorative and flouncy, almost as if it was made for a kid. But I suppose we were kids back then, weren't we? Kids, blissful and wistful and full of everything bittersweet and fresh. You always liked that saying, didn't you? How long has it been? Years, I think. Years and years and years and I wonder if you ever got that house you dreamed of, the one in the mountains, that no one else knew you wanted. You probably did. Knowing you. I know you. I used to. I don't know if I still do.

I count the cracks in the table with every word you speak. My hand has started to tingle where it grips the receiver and I fight back the flood of words that want to spill from my mouth and swamp the kitchen floor. But that would make a huge mess, and I'd probably not be able to find a rag to mop it up. I can never find anything. You used to say I'd loose my head if it wasn't stuck to my neck. You always liked the old cliché's. You used to say that one day they'd make their come back and, now, I want to ask if you still cling to that belief. I want to laugh and cry and scream. But I bite down on my tongue until it starts to hurt and I get that strange, thick taste in my mouth. You're still talking though, and I take a deep, long breath and force a smile even though I know you can't see it.

"So we'll make it this Friday then?"

Your voice reminds me of rich, sweet wine, long matured. I remember the hours of ragging you before your voice broke. It took a while, I remember that. You were always a bit of a late bloomer. Then you just zoomed right past the rest of us, didn't you? You were the fastest flyer as well- in the end.

I wonder how you got my number. I don't say anything though, and just nod. Then I realize that you can't see me and I clear my throat.

"Yes, that sounds fine. Around seven?"

"Alright." You rattle off the details.

"I'll see you then." My voice is just a little bit too soft, a little too muffled and then a second wind hits me and I smile. No, it's much closer to the old familiar smirk that you know me by, "Don't forget."

I hear nothing for a moment, and then you exhale. You don't quite laugh, but it's there, caught just beneath your breath, "I can't promise anything."

Then the phone goes dead and I pull it from my ear. I don't know what to think, so I set about rummaging in my cupboard, looking for something to wear, and I wonder what I'm going to tell Dylan when he gets home.

***0***

"Dylan, can you get me the stain remover?"

"I don't know where it is!"

"Yes you do! It's under the sink."

"The Handy Andy?"

"No! Move stuff around. Are you moving stuff around?"

Dylan storms in, looking flustered. He holds up a bottle, "Here you go."

I raise a brow, "That's drain cleaner."

"What, you can't use it?"

"Never mind." I sigh, "I'll get it later."

Dylan slouches out.

I had no reason to worry about him, as it turns out. He was going off to watch the game with his mates anyway, and the topic of where I'd be all evening never even came up.

Pulling on a pair of slim fitting jeans, boots, and a dark cotton shirt, I was out the door.

***0***

You offer me a litchi, already peeled and dripping with water. I take it and bite into the sweet flesh, almost expecting it to be without a pip. It's not.

"What happened to you?"

I shrug and let the pip roll over my tongue for a few more moments. Then I spit it into the sea, "Life."

You're staring at me with those eyes of yours, dark, haunting, creased now at the edges.

You reach up to finger the necklace that lies flush against your open shirt. The top half of a snake jaw. Obsidian stones.

"They really missed you, you know."

_Missed you__ all these years. Twenty years. Maybe more. I don't count._

_I should be angry. I was always angry. Now I'm more drained. And relieved. So damn relieved._

Your suit is tight fitting, dark and rich and just so like I expected you to be, and so unlike how you used to be.

Your hair is still too long, and I reach out and touch it, without thinking.

I wonder what your wife has to say?

You stiffen, and I remember that you hate it when someone else initiates contact. You once told me it makes your skin crawl no matter how much you love them.

I want to draw my hand back, but you catch it in your own.

I thought I'd gotten over the spine-tingling sensation on your fingers. They used to be so rough, now worn smooth. My spine tingles anyway.

You tilt your head, and I can see each fine line on your skin. So few. So perfect. When had you gotten so close? When did I start to inhale the scent of your cologne, hot, spicy and rich? When did the salty air fade out?

"_Max."_

When I look into your eyes again, your expression is intense, almost threatening.

And all of a sudden your mouth is on mine, hot and breathy. Your hand is tangled in my mane of hair, gripping it, pulling me nearer.

Your mouth was so warm, the caress of your lips softer than I could have imagined. You taste tentatively with your tongue, and I open my mouth with a low moan.

It's hot, and the feeling of you. You. Against me again. After all this time has my head spinning. I want to pull away, I need to but I can't.

You always had stronger willpower than me, as much as I denied it.

Suddenly, You pushed away as if you'd been burned.

"I'm sorry, I," You said in a strangled voice. "That wasn't right."

That's not like you. Hesitant, fighting it. Unsure. Unsure. This isn't you. Not you.

Not how I remembered.  
"It's okay," I say, looking at the ground.

And this isn't me.

"That wasn't right," You say again

Then you turn and walk away.

But I think it would have hurt less if you'd flew.

But you can't fly anymore, can you Fang?

* * *

**Just a story I needed to write- Max Ride.**

**What did you think?**


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